


Care

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Angst, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman may be a good enough liar to convince Deniz and Marc that he doesn't notice their silent, impossible struggle, but even he's not good enough to persuade himself he doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> Third in the Share-Dare-Care threesome arc.

Roman knows it'll have to end, of course. This crazy thing is running on borrowed time, and there's no way he can convey to anybody the depth of feeling he has for both of them, the certain hole either of them is sure to leave. He's not sure he can even convey that to Marc and Deniz themselves – yes, he's tried, and they've nodded and asked and fought battles with their natures to accommodate the other, but in the end there's always a raw look behind quickly lowered lashes, a wry twist of a mouth. There's always somebody getting hurt.

If he can't even make the two men he loves comprehend, how can he ever expect anyone else to understand? In the end, it always comes back to Annette's incredulous frown, her no-nonsense tone when she says, "But… eventually, you're going to choose, right? I mean, it can't go on like this forever, you know."

He knows it can't. For weeks, they've been playing a game of bliss and deception, stepping skilfully around the pitfalls of unspoken things in as complicated a routine as the one Katja chose for her competition. There's only one rule, and it's easy: Don't let on. Deniz has been pretending it doesn't bother him to share; Marc's been pretending he's okay with Deniz getting hurt; and Roman's been pretending he doesn't notice either of them pretending, hoping against hope that enough time and familiarity will turn make-believe into reality. He has some experience with that, after all.

But what worked for him doesn't apply to these two, and he's just about reached the limits of how long selfishness and love – two concepts that are often interchangeable, in his experience – will let him carry on like this. He's felt the glue he's tried to make of himself, determinedly patching together two magnetic opposites, slowly disintegrate, grow tacky and come apart. He may be a good enough liar to convince Deniz and Marc that he doesn't notice their silent, impossible struggle, but even he's not good enough to persuade himself he doesn't care. Something has got to give, and as usual, that something must needs be him. It's the only acceptable option.

So when he returns from Düsseldorf with a beaming Katja next to him clutching her silver, when he climbs out of the Steinkamp van in front of the Centre, he's as calm and possessed as he's likely to get. He's had it his way for long enough and has been tacitly proven wrong. If he's perfectly honest with himself, he's expected no differently, not really.

There's a welcome committee waiting for them: Annette and Lena pouncing on their glowing sister while Ingo, Marian and Keule make an unholy ruckus with hoots and noisemakers. Ben disappears in their loud hallos too, and even Claudia can't escape a hug or two. Only Isabelle and Roman hang back, neither of them quite part of that easy camaraderie. Their eyes meet for a second, and Roman catches a sour smile of acknowledgement in Isabelle's eyes, the recognition of another outcast. For a moment, Roman feels a surge of irrational anger towards his friends – their loud, blustering, straightforward love that seems so conditional sometimes, so flustered and floundering in the face of any shades of grey. He also feels a surprisingly strong longing for Florian, who's away visiting their mum for a long weekend. Flo wouldn't hesitate to pounce him with hugs. It's funny how of all his friends, all of them grown-ups with so much experience to draw on, such theoretical wealth of compassion, his seventeen-year-old brat of a brother is the only one who hasn't judged him; the only one whose affection hasn't noticeably changed.

  
He's still looking at Isabelle, who's standing aside, forlorn and forgotten with her disgrace of a fourth place trophy in her hands. After a moment, one of Isabelle's shoulders lifts almost imperceptibly; she straightens her back and walks over to the babbling cluster of people, slipping her hand into Ben's and making a place for herself whether she's welcome or not. Roman wishes he knew how to do that.

A shift of air behind him announces motion before he can even sense it; then a large, warm hand is wrapped firmly over his eyes. "Guess who," a voice murmurs into his ear, stubble gently scratching his cheek, and Roman smiles.

"Hello, Marc."

Marc spins him around and grins at him. "Congratulations." His eyes flicker to Roman's mouth, then past him, and Roman can almost see him gather his restraint, deciding not to kiss him, not to affront his friends.

Roman frowns, still angry at all of them, at his friends for not trying harder, at Marc for not forcing the issue, at himself for being such a coward. Almost defiantly, he rises up on his tiptoes and plants a kiss on Marc's lips, nothing too provocative, no tongue, but a firm display of affection nonetheless. "I've missed you," he says, ignoring the momentary lull in conversation behind them that tells him they've noticed.

Marc's mouth twitches in wry acknowledgement. If he's uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. "I've missed you, too," he murmurs, fingers lacing discreetly with Roman's. "We both have," he amends. "Deniz is still at his shoot in the Eiffel."

"I know. He called me about an hour ago."

They walk home holding hands and talking competition details: Katja's almost-fall that kept her from reaching first, and that impossibly tight spin that was too close to the toe-loop combination. Roman loves these moments, loves sharing his excitement about how the tips he gave Katja about the double Lutz actually worked, how perfect her poise was, how natural her smile. They analyse the mistakes Isabelle made that relegated her to fourth, debate the judges' decisions, the rink conditions and the audience's response. Roman treasures this quiet intensity when they're entirely in tune, entirely understanding of everything the other person has to say. They're on the couch kissing before the door has fallen shut, and as ever, Roman can only bask in the intent, spellbound look in Marc's eyes, can only rise to meet him on equal terms and forget the difficulties, the impossibilities, forget why it's so easy between two and two of them and never between three.

Afterwards, they lie sated and tangled among their inside-out clothes, and Marc's outlining Roman's collarbones with his fingers. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Roman. They don't have to. Roman picks up clothes while Marc showers. He unexpectedly finds a pair of Deniz's boxers stuffed into a corner of the couch, scrunched up and forgotten, and has to fight a sudden, stupid urge to cry as he stares at them, crumpled up in his hands, smelling of desire and loss.

When Marc comes out of the shower, he wears an expression mixed of resolve and something else, something Roman has never seen but which scares him deeply. "Roman, you should know," Marc starts, and before Roman can brace himself, before he can cut in to say he's got something Marc should know, too, the key turns in the door and Deniz blows in. A hurricane of roses and excitement, he sweeps Roman off his feet and swings him around in a wide circle before he kisses him, babbling congratulations and details of watching on telly at him between kisses. Roman laughs, breathless and charmed, and it's all too easy to forget the shift of mood just before Deniz came home. Especially when Deniz lets him go long enough to grin at Marc and drop him a friendly "hi, old man." Marc lifts a brow, snorts, and replies, "Hallo, Kleiner." It's almost easy to pretend that everything's fine, that Roman's the luckiest guy around, that he doesn't have a care in the world.

Almost.

There's a celebration at No.7 that night. Marian's prepared a huge buffet of Turkish delicacies, and the bar is at its loudest and warmest. There's the usual lull in conversation when Roman, Deniz and Marc come in, when Marc sits down with them; the customary awkward glances and unspoken questions of _man, could he not have had the decency to stay away?_ Marc glosses over it with his trademark suave wit, remarking cordially on the amazing array of foods and warmly congratulating Katja on her second place before he engages Claudia in professional talk about the choreography. After a few minutes, the conversation sets back in, and if it's slightly more subdued than usual, Roman is more determined tonight than ever to ignore it. He's surprised when under the table, Deniz's fingers curve briefly around his, squeezing in reassurance. He gives him a brief, grateful smile.

There's another awkward moment when Marian asks if anyone wants more drinks and Marc asks for his selection of champagnes. Roman sees Marian's brows draw together and resists the urge to close his eyes. "Dom Perignon," Marian says curtly and adds caustically, before Marc can respond, "Why, is that not posh enough for your exalted French tastes?"

Marc clears his throat and shakes his head; there's amusement in the motion, but Roman can sense the tension in him, too. "No need for a selection when you've got the best," he responds smoothly. "Could we have a round to toast with? My treat," he adds, to the group at large, which once again has fallen uncomfortably silent. No one replies. Marian merely grunts and turns his back, heading for the bar.

It surprises Roman when Deniz slides out of his seat and follows his father. The conversation at the table picks back up again too quickly for Roman to follow what's going on at the bar, where Deniz stands next to Marian, head lowered towards his father's. A quick glance at Marc shows Roman that he, too, is watching the Öztürks with a slight frown. As if he could feel the weight of their gazes, Marian briefly looks back, scowling. Roman sees Deniz lean closer and say something else; his expression is oddly intent, oddly fierce. Marian shrugs, then faces his son and says something. It's short, but Deniz's shoulders relax marginally and he nods. On his way back to the table, his hand drops onto Marc's shoulder just for a second, squeezing, before he slips back into his chair next to Roman. Before Roman can even make up his mind to ask, Marian returns with champagne flutes and the elegant swell of a Dom Perignon bottle. He doesn't say anything, doesn't look at any of them, but the rich pop of the cork stands in for conversation; a loud cheer rises and animosities are set aside, for the moment, as they all toast to Katja. Roman, too, tosses back the rich bubbles and resolves to be carefree, just for tonight.

Of all of them, Marian is the one he cannot blame; Roman doubts he'll ever really understand, and knows it would be an unfair expectation on his part. Like Marc, like Deniz, like himself, Marian can't help being who he is, and Marian Öztürk's imagination has no room to encompass what's happening between the three of them. Roman knows that Deniz has tried to talk to him more than once, and he feels a helpless twitch of love for Deniz at the thought of how hard those conversations must have been, but he also knows they've been more or less fruitless.

In a way, losing Marian's respect has been one of the hardest things about this. After everything that's passed between them, after the quiet, comfortable appreciation they'd grown to hold for each other, it's hard to see Marian's eyes shift to avoid his own, to see him go out of his way to not be alone with Roman. Roman knows he's trying, in his own way. He's polite and bland and non-offensive, but the easy banter between them has given way to awkward cordiality, and Marian no longer comes round for dinner or invites them for afternoon _çay_. Roman doesn't know why that should sting more than Ingo's tasteless threesome jokes or Annette's looks of mingled pity and annoyance, but it does.

It's late when they stumble home, and Roman is more than a little drunk, although he's not sure about the two of them. Perhaps that's why the strange sensation of change carries on, slipping into the moments when the mood changes from silly and celebratory to heated, when Deniz drives him back against the staircase wall, kissing him breathless while Marc searches for the keys, and when they all tumble through the door, hands already against buttons and belt buckles, searching for skin.

Maybe it's the fact that the laughter persists in a way that it usually doesn't when it's all three of them, because the undertones of dominance and rivalry prevent it; but this time there's a storm of giggles accompanying their clumsy struggle to get clothes out of the way, and if Roman isn't surprised when Deniz catches breathless laughter off his lips with his mouth, he certainly is when Marc slips in too, mingling his tongue with theirs. The kiss becomes a sloppy, amused three-way affair of slippery tongues and breath and bumping noses, fingers brushing lips, lacing on each other's cheeks, hair, necks.

They spin and all but fall into the bedroom, trailing residual clothes, and whatever has changed between them lately, Roman doesn't want to think about it. Tomorrow he'll face up to what he has to do. If tonight is the last night he can be selfish, the last night he has to lie, so be it. He gives up his cares, and gives in, rolling into bed with them, all hands and mouths and eagerness, arching into their caresses and closing his eyes at times so he won't even know who does what.

He knows for sure that something's different when it's Marc in the middle for a while, something that practically never happens. Roman is used to holding them together in bed as much as elsewhere. He's used to being the centre of their attentions, keeping them apart as much as he is sharing them, because if he doesn't act as a buffer, he's certain something will blow, certain they'll end up snarling and shredding each other to ribbons.

But here they are, with Marc splayed underneath Roman, knees spread wide to accommodate him, while Marc, in turn, is perched between Deniz's legs, licking him leisurely before his tongue wanders lower, easing him open, fucking him with his tongue in tune with Roman's thrusts into Marc. The lamp in the corner is dimmed to the lowest setting, just barely enough illumination for Roman to see Deniz's face strain and twitch, his lips falling open as he moans and arches his back, urging Marc's tongue deeper. Without breaking Roman's rhythm, Marc flips him over, pushing his thighs apart. Roman stops for long enough, one hand on Marc's hip, to grope for another condom, and then without so much as a muttered word or a glance, they take turns on Deniz, who raises his hips to meet them, gasping curses and encouragement. They roll and shift as if they had agreed where they'd end up, and Roman closes his eyes.

There's something intoxicating about fucking Deniz, always has been, something beyond the crazy spark that ignites whenever they touch. Perhaps it's nothing more complex than a stupid testosterone thing, the knowledge that he, Roman, will always have been the first to do these things to him; first to catch the stunned look on his face, first to feel his flesh giving way to intrusion, first to accommodate his clumsy, eager thrusts. This, then, is no different, no less of a first time for any of them: his cock, straining and slippery, between Deniz's thighs, next to Marc's, eagerly awaiting its turn, pushing inside in that rich, luxuriant slide he loves that makes Deniz arch and whimper and beg for more; and then, once Deniz is frantic and loose and bucking underneath them, it takes only a moment's coordination for him and Marc to line up and push into him together, hand on his hips, his buttocks, meeting on his rock-hard cock and pumping him double-handedly, in tune with their thrusts. They can't keep it up for long, all of them too far gone for serious coordination, and at the first sign of Deniz tightening around them and shuddering in climax, Marc's head turns to meet Roman's lips, catching his throaty moan even as his hand curves around Deniz's neck, feeling the ripple of raw sound as Deniz hoarsely moans his release, and Roman's hips buck forward helplessly, leaving him raw and empty.

Roman doesn't know what the difference is, what shifted while he was away, but right now he doesn't care; breathless and vulnerable and desperate, he gives himself up to it with abandon, relishing the strange balance, the relief of not being the sole focal point for a change. If nothing else, he'll take it for a goodbye gift.

  
But he doesn't fully comprehend what it means until after, when their breathing has calmed, the last condom disposed of and cursory clean-ups made. There's the long, timeless moment of peace Roman has come to treasure, just a pile of languid, warm limbs and cooling sweat. Then the mattress dips as Marc carefully disentangles himself and gets up, preparing to leave. Roman keeps in a sigh, used to this as he is. You can't have everything. It's a fact of life.

What he's not used to, though, is Deniz moving as well, already half asleep, reaching out to stop Marc with a hand around his wrist. Roman can sense, rather than see Marc freezing; or perhaps he's just imagining it, tense and breathless as he suddenly is himself.

He hears Marc whisper Deniz's name, questioningly, and then add something that Roman can't make out. He does hear Deniz's response, his dismissive snort and a mumbled, "Dude, don't be such a moron," accompanied by a tug that brings Marc back onto the mattress, his arm pulled firmly around Deniz's chest. On Deniz's other side, snugly pinned by one arm circling him and Deniz's long legs wrapped around his, Roman lies still, barely daring to breathe, as he feels every motion on the mattress. At first, Marc lies as stiffly as himself before he eventually settles in, hesitantly curving himself around Deniz's back and reaching across him. Deniz is skinny enough that Marc has no trouble reaching Roman. His hand meets Roman's stomach, slowly slides upwards across his ribs before eventually coming to rest just above his heart. Roman imagines that Marc must feel it pounding, that the sound of it must travel right into his fingertips and through his arm, sinking into Deniz's warm, loosened body between them. He brings up his own hand, slowly so as not to disturb Deniz, and puts it on top of Marc's. Deniz is already asleep, breathing evenly into his neck, and soon enough Marc's slower, deeper breathing joins him.

Roman lies awake for a long time after they've fallen asleep, staring towards the dark ceiling, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down, waiting for hope to be gracious and go away. It doesn't.


End file.
